


A New Champion

by kimchiwrites



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: Demands of the Qun, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimchiwrites/pseuds/kimchiwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Hawke flung himself to the side, rolling away from the Arishok’s warpath as the Qunari charged past him with murderous intent. His breath was rough and ragged in his throat, a metallic taste permanently on his tongue as his myriad wounds both internal and external made themselves known. The Arishok slammed into the wall with a resounding crash, shaking the very building. Dust and plaster fell like rain from the ceiling, the pillars trembled, and the nobles watching shuffled nervously, eyes flicking upwards.</em>
</p><p>In which a Champion is born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Champion

Hawke flung himself to the side, rolling away from the Arishok’s warpath as the Qunari charged past him with murderous intent. His breath was rough and ragged in his throat, a metallic taste permanently on his tongue as his myriad wounds both internal and external made themselves known. The Arishok slammed into the wall with a resounding crash, shaking the very building. Dust and plaster fell like rain from the ceiling, the pillars trembled, and the nobles watching shuffled nervously, eyes flicking upwards.

Hawke took the time to catch his breath while the Arishok stumbled back upright. His grey eyes glanced to where his friends stood, watching him with tense shoulders and worried eyes. He made it a point to not look at Anders, who he knew would be clutching at his staff with white knuckles, desperate to help but knowing that there was nothing he could do. He allowed himself a brief moment to ache for his apostate mage, who had seen so much blood and pain in his life, and would now see more.

Hawke coughed roughly, spitting blood onto the octagonal tiles of the Viscount’s Keep. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and stood shakily, leaning heavily against his staff. A long cut on his right leg bled sluggishly, and Hawke knew that he could not fight for much longer. If he didn’t fall to the Arishok’s blade, he would fall to blood loss. For a very, _very_ short moment, Hawke considered using the blood that dripped down his leg freely to boost his power, but remembered himself at the very last second. He would not fall prey to the madness that lay down that road.

The Arishok turned, eyes blazing with a sort of calculating bloodlust, like a predator who knew that his prey grew more and more tired with every moment of the chase. The Arishok hefted his axe and sword onto his broad shoulders, scarred with victories fought long ago. Hawke readied himself, holding his staff out before him, a deceptively fragile defense against the hulking mass of muscle and bone in front of him. For a moment, the only sound in the Keep was the heavy breathing of the two combatants, for a moment, everything was still.

Bellowing his battle cry, the Arishok leapt, his giant frame incredibly fast as he slammed his weapons down where Hawke had been a fraction of a second before. Hawke swung his staff out in a wide arc, sending razor-sharp shards of ice out in a protective cone around his body as the Arishok roared in pain. Dodging another swing of the Arishok’s axe, Hawke leapt up and over the Arishok’s shoulders, kicking off with a concentrated burst of energy at the Arishok’s back, sending the Qunari stumbling forward. The Arishok snarled, swinging around and clipping Hawke’s thigh with the tip of his sword. Hissing in pain, Hawke jumped back to avoid what would have been the crushing deathblow from the Arishok’s axe. His right leg was now all but useless and bleeding profusely. Red splashes of his blood dotted the tiles, and the Arishok’s eyes gleamed in triumph. The Arishok took a moment to adjust his grip on his weapons and Hawke took that chance to grab his staff with both hands, slamming the head of it to the ground. Force magic pulsed in the air, the faint smell of burnt lyrium tickling his nose as the Arishok was blasted off his feet and into the wall. The wall gave, exploding outwards in a cloud of dust and stone as the Arishok collapsed into the room behind it.

Breathing heavily, Hawke knew that the Arishok had not been felled. It would take more than a simple fling across the room to defeat him. Healing magic tingled in his hands as Hawke used some of his dwindling energy to heal the gash in his thigh. The other hurts would have to wait—there was not yet time to pause, and Hawke didn’t have enough magic to spare. Already, the stones rumbled and clattered to the ground as the Arishok dug his way out of the collapsed ruins of the wall. Covered in a fine, white powder, the Arishok looked like a horrific ghost from a long-dead civilization come to enact vengeance for his people.

“You fight well, bas saarebas.” The Arishok said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. 

Hawke smirked wearily at the compliment. “Yeah, well you’re no lightweight either.”

The Arishok inclined his head. “A shame that we must fight each other. None other I have seen in this forsaken city that are worthy enough to call basalit-an.”

“If I’m going to be completely honest here, I did _not_ expect this outcome when I woke up this morning.” Hawke quipped, straightening from his crouch with some effort.

“Hn.” The Arishok suddenly fell into a stance, and that was the only warning Hawke had before two hundred pounds of Qunari came charging his way. In a sudden, startling moment of clarity, Hawke knew that he would not be able to get away in time. Though he had healed the gash in his thigh, he was weakened from too much bloodloss to dodge with his normal agility. In the seconds that he had left, he desperately gathered what magic he had left in his body and concentrated on his staff. He had only one chance. If he missed, if he _failed_ —

The Arishok slammed into Hawke just as his magic burst from him in an awesome burst of light.

The room exploded.

* * *

“ _No!_ ” Anders started forward, coughing as dust infiltrated his nose and throat, but a strong, gauntleted hand held him back. Anders snarled and attempted to tear his arm out of Fenris’ grasp, but Fenris merely shook his head slowly, the closest thing to sympathy and understanding in his eyes. Anders turned back and desperately scanned the cloud of dust for any sign of Hawke, but failed to see any bright red hair or flashing grey eyes.

Isabela stood next to him. Guilt ate away at her pretty face, clear as day. For a brief moment, Anders hated her with all his heart. If not for her, they would never be here, none of this would have ever happened, and Hawke would be unhurt and safe by his side. He pressed his lips together in a thin line. No, that was unfair of him. Isabela couldn’t have known it would come to this, and it wasn’t fair to blame her for it.

“Look!” Merrill hissed, pointing at the cloud of dust. The four turned as one, peering into the murky cloud. Beside and all around them, the nobles and Qunari did the same, leaning forwards for a better look. The dust dissipated, rubble and cracked tiles littering the floor. The Arishok lay facedown on the ground under a large slab of plaster and rock, one horn snapped clean off and arms spread. His axe and sword were wedged deeply into the stone. Hawke was half-slouched against the wall, one arm hung loosely against his side. His head was down, a curtain of red hair hiding his face from view. Both combatants were deathly still.

Anders hardly even dared breathe. His head felt light, a stark contrast to how heavy his feet were. He stood there, rooted to the ground, unable to look at anything except for the dark red gash in Hawke’s side. The wound was deep, the dark blood thick and slick as it spilled onto the cracked tiles in an obscenely red puddle. There were cuts and scrapes all along Hawke’s body, tears and rips in his robes. The metal shoulder and armguard he wore was scuffed and dented and the chestplate hung uneven, one of the four strips that held it in place hanging loosely under his ribs. A long cut sliced across his lips and chin. A thin slash lay across his nose, a stroke of red against a deathly pale face. Hawke was a tableau of red and black and silence.

“Please…” Merrill whispered, a small gasp of horror escaping her lips as she saw Hawke. Isabela’s face went white with shock, her lips moving soundlessly in a wordless prayer to whatever god may listen to her pleas. Fenris cursed in Tevene, fingers flexing as if he wanted to draw his blade and leap to Hawke’s defense. Anders’ mind went blank. Deep within, Justice stirred at the outpouring of wordless despair and emotion rising within Anders’ chest. His fingers trembled, a slight soundless crackling of power gathering at their tips. Merrill glanced at him and grabbed his hand tightly, squeezing to let him know that she was there, that he wasn’t alone.

Justice retreated.

“ _Fenedhis_. Look, it is not over yet.” Fenris pointed at where the Arishok lay motionless except… he was motionless no longer. Anger and frustration choked Anders as he watched the Arishok slowly pull himself from the rubble. Piercing eyes noted Hawke’s still form, and a grunt of acknowledgment escaped the Qunari’s lips. A strong hand reached for both his weapons still embedded in the wall and pulled them out as easily as if they had simply been sheathed in the stone. The Arishok slowly approached Hawke’s body, weapons held with fatal intent in his hands.

Fenris walked forward until he was level with Anders. “He’s going to finish the job,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the Arishok as he made the slow and painful trek towards Hawke. “He has to make sure that the battle is over.”

Merrill gasped in horrified realization. “No! You don’t mean…”

Isabela’s voice was almost inaudible. “He’s going to cut off his head.”

Anders started forward, a fierce sense of denial roaring to life in his heart, but Fenris stopped him again. “No. Wait. _Wait_.”

“Let Kirkwall _burn_ for all I care, but I will _not_ abandon him I—” Fenris’ grip on Anders’ turned crushing and Anders winced. Fenris’ gaze pinned Anders down, rendering him frozen in place. Fenris jerked his head at Hawke’s form, opening his mouth to mouth two words that restored hope to Anders’ tired heart.

‘He breathes’.

Sure enough, Anders’ honey eyes could see the ever-so-slight movement of Hawke’s chest. The Arishok didn’t seem to notice this, however, and thanks to Fenris’ soundless words, he still hadn’t. Hawke’s fingers twitched a fraction of an inch towards the staff that lay prone next to his right thigh, the dark wood soaked in Hawke’s blood. Isabela and Merrill noticed Anders and Fenris’ rapt attention and turned curious eyes to the scene in front, wondering what had rendered them suddenly silent.

The Arishok stood above Hawke’s bloody body, an impassive expression on his scarred and tattooed face. He, too, was riddled with blood and wounds, the broken horn sticking out like a sore thumb. He breathed laboriously, perhaps because of the broken ribs. He put all of his weight in his left leg, indicating that his right was now unable to support him. Broken? Anders couldn’t say. It was only his trained healer’s eye that had allowed him to notice these things in the first place. The Arishok himself showed no outward sign of pain, his long training and experience on the battlefield as a general and leader of the Qunari legion granting him the strength of will to resist and ignore his wounds. He hefted his axe in his right arm and observed Hawke.

“Ataash varin kata, basalit-an. You were a worthy opponent.”

The Arishok raised his axe with purpose, pausing for a moment before swinging it down with all his might.

“HAWKE!” Anders cried, hands crackling blue.

The entire room gasped in shock and surprise, some of the nobles fainted, and even a few Qunari’s eyes widened.

Out of the center of the Arishok’s back, a blade drenched in blood protruded. The Arishok looked down with surprise at the wooden staff piercing his chest. His eyes traveled up the staff past hands slick with blood to make contact with triumphant grey.

“As… were you… Arishok.” Hawke rasped. Blood dripped from between his lips, staining his teeth red. He smiled, baring his teeth as the Arishok dropped his weapons and fell heavily to his knees, hands hovering over the mage’s staff. The Arishok allowed a small smile to grace his lips.

“A… clever tactic… bas saarebas. You are truly… basalit… an…” The great Qunari’s eyes closed, a breath escaping his lips as his lungs collapsed. The Arishok’s body crashed backwards to the floor, a pool of blood growing beneath him. The entire room was dead silent aside from the sound of Hawke’s raspy breathing.

“Ha… aah… aah…” Hawke dropped the staff and hunched over onto his knees, clutching desperately at his side in an attempt to staunch the steady flow of blood. Anders finally remembered himself, breaking himself from the shock of seeing Hawke leap up and impale the Arishok with his staff’s blade and running to Hawke’s side. He fell heavily to his knees beside Hawke, the soft blue light of healing magic already encasing his hands as he poured his magic into Hawke’s body.

Hawke’s eyes were closed, exhaustion seeping from every pore. The red of his hair matched the blood on his lips and hands, and all Anders could think was _thank the Maker thank you thank you thank you he lives he’s alive—_

It was at this moment that Anders noticed the other surrounding them, shielding them from the view of the nobles. The Qunari had already left. As soon as they confirmed that the Arishok was dead, they had nodded in respect towards Hawke before leaving the Keep, the Tome gone with them. Fenris was surprisingly gentle as he helped Hawke sit up, one arm slung carefully just under Hawke’s shoulders so as to provide support without pressing too hard on bruised and broken ribs. “You look terrible, Hawke.”

A tired smirk broke out across Hawke’s face. “Still makes me a sight better looking than you, Fenris.”

Fenris grunted, but a matching smirk was on his face. It was only when they had successfully gotten Hawke back onto his feet that they realized that the entire crowd of nobles was cheering.

“Three cheers for the Hawke, the savior of the Keep!”

“Hawke! Hawke! Hawke!”

Hawke stared at the boisterous crowd in bewilderment. “Are they… _cheering_ … for me?”

“Seems like it,” Fenris murmured, ignoring the throng of nobles and fending off some particularly persistent ones with a piercing glare and a snarl. Merrill was holding Hawke’s staff delicately in her hands, trying not to touch the blood that soaked it to the core. Isabela trailed behind, unsure of her welcome, hands clenching and unclenching as she awkwardly fell into step behind Merrill. Anders didn’t have the time or the inclination to concern himself with her. Hawke would deal with her, as he dealt with everything.

As the ragtag companions pushed their way past grateful highborn, the doors to the Keep opened, revealing a contingent of templars lead by Meredith, followed closely by Orsino. Meredith came to an abrupt halt, sweat gleaming on her brow and light glinting off her armor. She observed the wreckage, the absence of the Qunari, and the dead Arishok lying on the floor not forty paces from where she stood. All of this she saw without comment until she finally came to Hawke. Cold blue eyes narrowed in an unreadable emotion. Beside her, Orsino sighed in relief. “It’s over, then.”

Hawke nodded, a battleworn smile on his face. “Yep. Piece… of cake, to be quite… honest. Had a friendly… chat with dear… leader over there and… the Qunari… all decided to up and… go home.”

Meredith’s lips thinned at his flippancy and the sound of cheers coming from the nobility. Anders could feel the smugness radiating off Hawke, and would have smiled at it if he wasn’t so preoccupied with making sure Hawke didn’t bleed to death while standing. Anders managed to spare a glance at the Knight Commander and had to hide his smirk. Meredith looked like she had sucked on the sourest lemon on Thedas. With noticable effort, Meredith bit out through clenched teeth, “Well then. It looks like Kirkwall has a new Champion.”

Hawke grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> First AO3 posting! Been about 5-6 years since I wrote fic and published it so... time to get back into the swing of things?? ^-^
> 
> This is based off [a doodle I made](http://americankimchi.tumblr.com/post/127696522636/okay-so-i-just-decided-to-clean-it-up-before-i) on tumblr. I really loved Act 2, you know? It just felt so... I don't know. I just know that I enjoyed it the most. :)


End file.
